


Love, Play On

by groveofbones



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, No Drama Between Main Characters Because I Am a Sap, Polyamory, Rescue Missions, Yennefer and Jaskier Are Snarky Metamours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groveofbones/pseuds/groveofbones
Summary: Set in some nebulously post-canon time. Yennefer and Geralt have tentatively reconciled, but things are still fragile between them when Yennefer offers to help Geralt rescue Jaskier from the clutches of a singularly unpleasant lord. In the process, she finds herself saddled not just with the Witcher, but with his bard and surprise child, too. She should be annoyed.She isn't, though.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 56
Kudos: 469





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing but hurt/comfort. Perhaps too much hurt/comfort? Seriously, there's no plot, just people loving each other. I am a simple soul with simple needs.
> 
> Warning: There's descriptions of injuries and threats of other injuries in this, but nothing worse than what you'd see in canon.

Things were still a little big fragile between them when Yennefer met Geralt at an inn in Aedirn. She didn’t particularly like being in Aedirn, after all that had happened, and she also wasn’t convinced that she particularly liked being around Geralt, either, but she had come to meet him anyway, when she’d heard the stories spreading through the continent that the famous White Wolf was taking care of an infestation of monsters in the kingdom.

It was the second time they had met since the mountain. The first time had been in an unclaimed wasteland on the border of the growing Nilfgaardian Empire, and there had been an… uncomfortably honest conversation about… feelings and other weaknesses. They had come to a spun-glass understanding, a cobweb of reconciliation, the barest wispy hint that perhaps they wouldn’t spend the next few years avoiding each other, as they had been.

In her heart of hearts, Yennefer was willing to admit that the avoiding was more uncomfortable than the conversation had been. She had… ugh, she had _missed_ him.

Ridiculous.

In any case, things were still fragile between them. Yennefer, absurdly, hesitated on the threshold of the door to the inn, thinking that it was not too late to turn around. Perhaps she and Geralt were meant only to meet by chance; perhaps by seeking him out this way, she would shatter whatever had been rebuilt between them.

No. She was braver than that, and she did not fear breaking. She shoved open the door to the common room and slipped into the warmth and the fire light.

Another time, she might have enjoyed the hushed silence as all eyes fell on her and were struck by her terrible beauty. She might have basked in the gazes of admiration and fear and moved through the room as though she owned it. This time, though, she subtly directed attention away from herself, so that she could scan the tables in peace.

_There_. Her breath caught despite herself at the glimpse of white hair pooling across broad shoulders. As usual, Geralt sat alone, every line in his body indicating that he didn’t want to be disturbed or spoken to, hunched over his drink with a grave face and a set jaw.

He knew she was there, of course. There was no way for her to turn his attention away from her, not anymore, and the thought was somehow simultaneously unnerving and reassuring. (No, not reassuring, flattering. She didn’t need reassurance from him or anyone else.) As she got closer to him, she saw his golden eyes flick toward her, just the tiniest movement, an acknowledgment and, she hoped, a welcome.

She sat down on the bench beside him, with her back to the table, looking out at the room. “Witcher,” she said lightly.

“Mage,” he answered, and took another sip of his ale.

“How’s your child?” she asked.

“Safe,” he said firmly. “I’ll be heading back her way as soon as I’ve finished up here. Shouldn’t be more than another few days.”

“Glad to hear it,” Yennefer said. “I got her something.” She reached into the hidden pocket sewn into the inside of her cloak and retrieved a little cloth-wrapped parcel, about the size of her palm. Geralt took it from her with his brows furrowed in surprise, and shook it out of its wrappings onto the table. A little broach, gold formed into the shape of a rearing lion, its muscles and mane etched intricately into the metal, with tiny emerald eyes and ivory fangs, gleamed in the light of the fire. “I saw it in a market on my travels, though it might appeal.”

That was not strictly true. Yennefer had, in fact, commissioned it, although she had no intention of telling Geralt that. He had told her about his Child Surprise at their last meeting, and although he’d spoken about her haltingly, awkwardly, it had been obvious to Yennefer that he was already coming to care deeply for her. Besides which, the story of a girl stripped of all family and kingdom, alone in the world but for a taciturn stranger to whom she’d been promised before she was born, had moved Yennefer to pity. A little bit of pity. Not very much. She’d had some money laying around, it hadn’t been much of a gesture, really. Next to meaningless.

Geralt ran one blunt forefinger along the delicate piece, his eyes narrowed in concentration, then picked the broach up and carefully rewrapped it and slipped it into a pocket of his coat. “Thank you, Yen. I think she’ll like it.”

“Mmm,” Yennefer said, leaning back against the table, the very picture of unconcern. If she felt any happiness at all at his words, she made sure it didn’t show on her face.

“So what brings you to these parts?” Geralt asked in a voice with just enough sarcasm to make it clear that he knew exactly why she’d come.

Yennefer briefly considered lying, saying that she had been hired for a job in the kingdom or that she had come there looking for some rare item. Instead, she answered truthfully, “Heard you were here. Thought I’d see you.”

It came out unfortunately sincere. Yennefer did not wince. Geralt, the bastard, quirked one corner of his mouth in a tiny, disgustingly hopeful smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, and that, too, was far too sincere. “I… Oh, fuck,” he cut off, his face changing from contentment to anger in a heartbeat. “Not this bastard again.”

Yennefer glanced over her shoulder in the direction that Geralt was looking. A man had just come into the common room, and he was an extremely unpleasant-looking man. He was tall and muscular, and might have been handsome if his face wasn’t twisted in a superior sneer. He looked around the room like everyone in it was dirt, and when he caught sight of Geralt, he smiled a smile that showed far too many teeth.

“Who the fuck is that specimen?” Yennefer asked, raising an eyebrow at Geralt.

Geralt pressed his lips together into a thin line. “Some local lordling. Came to me a couple of days ago trying to convince me to kill a rival for the affection of a girl. Got pushy about it, I told him to fuck off or get a sword up his piss hole. Whoever the girl is, she’d be advised to stay well away from him.”

“Let’s hope she does,” Yennefer said, and turned her back on the man. She eyed him out of the corner of her eye even so. He was dressed in fine enough clothes, but he was carrying something over his shoulder, a bulky bundle wrapped in a coarse blanket. “Be careful,” she whispered to Geralt. She didn’t want to do more than a cursory skim over the surface of the man’s mind, but that was enough for her to understand that the item was something he thought would hurt Geralt, and he was pleased to be given a chance to use it. 

The man settled himself across from Geralt. She ducked her head under the hood of her cloak, so that both her carefully crafted beauty and elven eyes were hidden from the unpleasant man. “Good evening, Witcher,” the man said. “To you and your… lady.” He grinned. He thought she was a prostitute, Yennefer thought in amusement.

“I told you to stay gone,” Geralt grumbled at the man across from him. “I don’t want any part of your trouble or your money.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” the man said in an oily voice. “I was really hoping that you’d reconsidered. I did make you a very generous offer.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt replied, eloquently.

“I hate to do this, I really do,” the man answered, in a tone of voice that made it clear that he was enjoying every minute of it. “But you’ve left me no choice other than to use more… unpleasant means of persuasion.”

The man shifted the bundle from his shoulder, and Geralt tensed. So did Yennefer, although less noticeably. But the man did not draw a weapon, or set off some kind of combat magic. He simply set the bundle down on the table with a _thunk_ and pulled the blanket away from the top of it. Beneath the blanket was a leather case. A leather case with a very distinctive shape. Yennefer felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She was beginning to see where this was going, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Geralt reached out a hand, a hand that was so still that Yennefer imagined he was concentrating very hard to keep it from shaking. He undid the catches on the leather case and flipped it open. Inside was a lute that Yennefer recognized. Oh, this was going exactly where she thought it was going.

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“I know, it is a real shame that our guest doesn’t have his lute to play anymore,” the man said, with a rather revolting parody of sympathy. “But it could always be worse. He could find himself without any fingers to play with.”

A slight shudder passed through Geralt’s body, imperceptible to all but Yennefer, who was sitting close enough to feel it through her own shoulder. “Your guest?” he said, with a note in his voice that should have been causing the man across from him to piss himself.

The man across from Geralt, having, apparently, no sense of self-preservation, merely smiled wider. “A certain bard who I believe you know. We’ve had him for a week or so, in case you proved obstinate. Just a bit of leverage.”

“What have you done?” Still as stone, Geralt was, and only Yennefer could tell that he was coiled as tightly as one of the strings on the lute, ready to spring.

“We haven’t killed him, if that’s your concern,” the man said blithely. “As for the rest, I’m sure your imagination will conjure something suitable. No,” the man said quickly, as Geralt pressed both hands to the table, about to leap to his feet, “if you kill me, he dies. I’ve warded his cell against you, you won’t be able to get to him without me. This lute is the first piece of incentive for you. You’ll get one of your friend’s fingers each day you continue to refuse my generous offer. But I’m sure it won’t come to that, will it? I’m sure I’ll hear about Lord Orestad’s death by morning, won’t I?” Geralt said nothing in reply, and the man’s smirk became insufferably broad. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, and your… companionship.” He winked in Yennefer’s direction, then stood from the table and turned on his heel to head toward the door.

Geralt and Yennefer stayed completely still until the man had left the inn, then Yennefer said quickly, to forestall Geralt’s doing something destructive in his anger, “He didn’t see me. He doesn’t know what I am.”

Geralt nodded tightly to show that he understood. Wherever the grotesque lordling was keeping Jaskier, he may have fortified it against a Witcher, but not against a Witcher and a mage. Together they had a chance.

***

In the event, the lordling turned out to be as overconfident as he was repulsive. Geralt might have been able to find and break into the house in which Jaskier was being held by himself; with Yennefer by his side, there was no question. There were some magical defenses that Yennefer disintegrated with barely more than a thought. After that, the household was doomed. They tore through the guards like they were wet parchment, in some cases actually tearing them apart; Geralt was clearly beside himself with rage, and Yennefer was not particularly filled with equanimity herself.

The lordling happened to be in residence, by happy chance, and they found him trying desperately to escape out a back door. He was very lucky that Geralt was a better man than he was, and that Geralt was in a hurry; as it was, he still ended up painting the walls of his lovely manse with his blood and tissues. Yennefer didn’t think it would be any great loss to the world.

After that, they had to pause to evaluate their next steps. Geralt leaned against a wall, spattered with blood and with his eyes wild. Yennefer stood beside him, a little less soiled with her enemies’ fluids but with her own blood singing in her veins, an uncomfortable result of magic used well and mercilessly that would possibly make her question her own character, if she let herself think about it too much. She did not.

“I haven’t seen any sign of him,” Geralt said, his voice a low, hoarse growl. “We have to search this fucking place.”

“Think it through,” Yennefer answered. “This little popinjay,” she nudged what was left of the lordling with the toe of her boot, “wouldn’t risk dirtying his fancy dwellings. There’s got to be a dedicated place for his more unsavory endeavors.”

“Underground,” Geralt hissed.

“My thought precisely,” Yennefer said. “That should narrow down the search.”

In the kitchen, they found that the entrance to the cellars had an ostentatious padlock on it. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at Geralt, and Geralt nodded. Then, in case his agitation wasn’t obvious enough, Geralt grabbed the padlock in one hand and wrenched it off the door with a screech of metal.

The door swung open on its hinges, and Geralt recoiled. Yennefer knew how he felt; although she couldn’t smell or hear whatever it was that Geralt was responding to, she could sense a tickle at the corner of her mind, a sense of suffering embedded in the very stones of the walls. Something truly terrible had happened in that cellar.

Geralt swept down the stairs, every muscle in his body tensed, his movements becoming less and less human and more and more predatory with each second that passed. Yennefer followed him, bringing a little flame to the tips of her fingers without even thinking about it. She poured her building anger into the flame, letting it heat up and brighten until it illuminated the entire staircase, brushing against the darkness at the bottom.

And then they were in the cellars themselves. The first thing that Yennefer realized was that, this close, she knew what Geralt had picked up at the top of the stairs: the smell of blood, old and new, and the sound of ragged breathing. A spike of anger at the scent and the sound caused the fire she was holding to leap up, casting the shadows away from all but the corners of the damp stone room.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, his voice cracking.

_Fuck_ , Yennefer thought in agreement. The naked man chained to the floor in the center of the room was Jaskier, although it took her a long moment to recognize him. His milk-pale skin had almost entirely turned various shades of red and purple. She took stock of his injuries clinically, because the extent of them was too terrible for anything else. Every inch of him was bruised and beaten. One eye was swollen shut; one hand was twice the size it should be, probably with fractured bones; and ( _oh, fuck_ ) his right ankle hung at an unnatural angle from his leg, the foot so purple that, in the low light, it was nearly black. Yennefer would have to pull out healing magic that she was not enormously practiced in just to ensure he didn’t lose his foot.

A long shudder passed through Geralt’s body, and his shoulders suddenly sagged, the tense readiness leaving him like wine being poured out of a flagon and onto the floor. His face, so much more expressive than he liked to pretend it was, was devastated.

Yennefer did the only thing she could think to do: said a word and flicked her fingers to the side, causing all the chains binding Jaskier to fly apart, rocket across the room, and embed themselves into the walls with a flurry of chipped metal and stone. On the floor above them, the still-warm bodies of the guards and their master turned to dust.

The sound made Jaskier twitch into consciousness, his hands fluttering weakly toward his head as if to protect from a blow. He didn’t cry out, but the extremely labored way he was breathing left Yennefer in doubt that he even could; something must have broken in his rib cage, probably puncturing a lung. They had to get him out of there or all the butchery they’d done would be for nothing.

Geralt was already kneeling next to Jaskier. He raised his hands but didn’t seem sure what to do with them; he made an abortive motion to touch Jaskier but seemed to think better of it. “Jaskier,” he ground out instead. “Jaskier, it’s me. Geralt. I’m… rescuing you.”

“G…” Jaskier tried, slitting his eyes against the light that Yennefer was still holding up. “G… Ge…”

Wordlessly, Yennefer slid her cloak off her shoulders and handed it to Geralt. He took it with a grateful glance at her and spread the dark blue silk over Jaskier. “It’s alright,” he said. “We’re leaving this place.” Geralt picked Jaskier up off the ground, wrapping the cloak around him, more gentle than Yennefer had ever seen him. Even so, Jaskier huffed a pained breath.

“We need to get him somewhere I can work on him as soon as possible,” Yennefer said urgently.

“Can you heal him?” Geralt asked.

“Not entirely,” Yennefer answered. “It’s not a field of magic I have a lot of experience in, and I wouldn’t want to do too much. It would be a risk. But I can get him out of risk of dying. It’ll just take time, and I’ll need not to be disturbed.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have that unusually spacious tent with you, would you?” Geralt asked, heading for the stairs.

Yennefer quirked the corner of her mouth up in a tense smile. “As it happens, I do.” She swept her hand through the air to call a portal, a wide oval against one stone wall. It opened onto the hillside a few miles from the town where she’d set up a camp, a base of operations of sorts. Her tent sat in the center of the camp, and her horse grazed with magically enhanced placidity nearby. All around the crown of the hill were magical wards to keep anyone from stumbling on her.

“I like to travel prepared,” Yennefer said, closing the portal behind them and crossing the clearing to pull open the entrance to the tent.

“I am lucky that you do,” Geralt said, with alarming sincerity, as he ducked under the tent flap and into the interior. To cover the fact that the gratitude was doing unusual things to her heart rate, she whispered a word to cause the torches around the tent to leap to life.

“Lay him out on the bed,” Yennefer said, “on his back would be best, as straight as you can make him.” Geralt nodded and did as she had asked him, wincing at the change in Jaskier’s ragged breathing. The jostling had hurt him, no matter how gentle Geralt was trying to be. He straightened Jaskier’s arms and legs, then stepped back from the bed, looking to Yennefer with endless, terrifying trust. “All right,” Yennefer said, avoiding his eyes, “now it’s my turn. He may scream; if he does, you’ll just have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Geralt said, with complete honesty, and Yennefer felt a rush of some warm, disarming feeling.

Then she closed her eyes, and cast her mind and her chaos into Jaskier’s body, and the tent ceased to exist.

She hadn’t been lying to Geralt, she really wasn’t terribly experienced in this kind of magic. Other things had seemed so much more useful than mucking around in human bodies in any but the most superficial of ways, and, if she was being honest, she hadn’t really had many people in the past that she would have wanted to heal. There was a certain amount of instinct that came to putting right a body, but it was also fiendishly complicated, and she didn’t want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary doing it. It would be all too easy to make a wrong move that would destroy something vital.

There was a soothing rhythm to the human body, to any body, she supposed, and it was easy enough to sink into it. Blood rushed, slower then faster; muscles contracted and expanded; the mind sent tendrils of shivering lightning through its networks, like water through tributary rivers, everything coming back to the seat of consciousness. Yennefer took in a deep breath, let it out, and got to work.

The ribs were the most critical thing. She had been right that the lung was punctured, and air was leaking with each breath into the cavity of his chest, making further breathing difficult. To move the bone to a better position, to knit the flesh of the lung back together just enough to ensure no further danger, that was a simple enough task, but what to do with the air that was in the wrong place? After a split second of consideration, in which she wondered if what she intended was even possible, she decided that nothing was gained when nothing was ventured. She concentrated and nudged the world, just slightly, to make truth the idea that the air was a foot to the left of where it thought it was. There was an uncomfortable shiver up her spine as the world grudgingly accepted her revision, and in the next moment she was gratified to feel Jaskier’s lungs fully inflate.

What was the most urgent, after that? The ruin that had been made of his foot and ankle. She wrenched the bone back into a straighter position, not healed but ready to be set properly, and she winced internally at the twisted blood vessels and flesh dead of blood starvation. It was a tricky procedure, a smoothing and a soothing and a gentle intimation to the flesh that it wasn’t quite as close to rotting as it thought it was, that maybe that infusion of properly flowing blood was enough to restore it to life, after all.

When that was done, her consciousness felt weary and strung out, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to do much more with the focus required to ensure it wouldn’t go wrong. Healing was fiddly business, and she tended to prefer more… blunt procedures. Was there anything else that needed to be done?

Her inner sight snagged on the shattered mess of his hand. It wasn’t a clean break; he must have been stomped on by a heavy booted foot, and the bones were splintered in places. If it was set as it was, it would heal, but it would never move the way it had before.

Jaskier made his living from the careful movement of his hands. His living and his happiness.

Well, she had enough left in her for that. She dragged the fragments of bone carefully into place, relying on long-ago studies of anatomy and on the body’s own fading memory of how it should be, how it wanted to be. She nudged all the bones into place, and then she cajoled them, bent her will to convincing them that they were bound closer together, until only thin lines of fractures criss-crossed them, rather than full breaks.

A wave of weariness swept over her. With a gesture of her mind, she cast a cleansing over Jaskier’s body, sweeping all those tiny harmful beings poised to cause infections in the bard’s wounds into an ignominious death, and then, her focus exhausted, she dropped back into her own body, standing in the center of the tent, at the foot of the bed.

Her hands shook slightly as she pushed her hair away from her face. She reflected ruefully that she really should have put more effort into learning healing; she didn’t like having gaps in her knowledge, even if it had seemed less than useful in times past.

The tent was silent except for Jaskier’s breathing, which, Yennefer noted with satisfaction, came quite a bit easier than it had before. The bard was thoroughly unconscious, sweat standing out on his face, but his ankle was straight again, and both foot and hand were a good deal less swollen than they had been. Geralt was leaning over him, his hands out as if to catch Jaskier if he started up from the bed, his eyes wide as he looked at Yennefer.

“Did he wake, while I was working?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt leaned away from the bed and tilted his head to one side. “Briefly, at first. When his ribs moved. The pain was too much, though, and he went out again. Is he… Will he…?”

“I’ve done as much as I dared to,” Yennefer answered, deciding not to mention her mental exhaustion. She had her pride (she was uncomfortably certain that Geralt could tell, anyway). “If we set the bones, they’ll heal properly now. He won’t lose any limbs, and the wounds should not become infected if we bandage them now and care for them going forward.”

“Yen, I… I can’t tell you how… Thank you,” Geralt stumbled out, his eyes shining with his sincerity.

Yennefer could have looked away from him. She almost wanted to, wanted to duck away from that sincerity the way she would pull her hand back from an open flame.

But she had missed him, when they hadn’t been speaking. She had been truly happy, when they found each other again. And she’d mastered flame, after all. So instead, she met his eyes, let him see that she was telling the truth when she said, “He’ll be alright, Geralt.”

***

Geralt took charge of the setting and bandaging, which Yennefer appreciated, as it gave her the opportunity to sit down on the edge of the bed and “supervise”. Jaskier did not wake while Geralt worked, and only occasionally groaned in his unconsciousness. She wondered if he had been able to genuinely sleep at all, during his captivity. She doubted it.

“He’s had far too little water, of late,” she said as she watched Geralt work, as assured now that he had something to do as he had been hesitant and helpless just a few moments before. “We should wake him as soon as we can, make sure he drinks something.”

Geralt grunted an agreement. “Too little water, and too little food.” He touched his fingertips gently to a relatively unbruised part of Jaskier’s chest. The bard’s ribs stuck out like those of the inside of a ship’s ballast. “We’ll have to be careful with that, or he’ll get sick.”

Yennefer nodded and leaned back against the footboard. The weariness from her healing efforts was leaving her feeling like a raw nerve. Idly, she wondered when it had become “we”; as far as she remembered, she had only agreed to helping Geralt get the bard out of the lordling’s grasp.

But the bard was safely away from that charnel house. And she hadn’t left them to their own devices yet. Strange.

With his work done, with Jaskier so swaddled in bandages and splints that his terrible bruises were almost completely hidden, Geralt sighed and sat down beside Yennefer, close enough that their shoulders were touching. He kept his back straight, but Yennefer could feel a slight tremor running through him.

Without a word, she reached out and set her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. At the touch, he slumped, his shoulders curving forward and his head bowed, his hair falling to obscure his face. Yennefer let him have a moment of relative privacy, not looking too closely at his face, just keeping her hand where it was.

After a long moment, Geralt straightened and sighed, sweeping his hair back with one hand. He put a hand on Yennefer’s knee, a silent thanks, and scowled at the floor of the tent. “Where are we?”

“About ten miles outside the village,” Yennefer answered. “I wanted to have a closer camp, just in case I needed to make an escape without magic.”

“Prepared for any eventuality?” Geralt asked, with just the hint of a smile.

“I try to be,” Yennefer answered airily. “I’ve got a place that’s been mine for a few years now, where I spend a lot of my time. I can portal us there when it’s safer to move him, if you’d like.”

Geralt considered it, his brow furrowed. “Are we safe here for the moment?”

Yennefer shrugged. “I have wards up to prevent people from looking too closely, but they won’t stand up to a determined search. Even so, I don’t think there’s any reason for anyone to be looking here.”

“That fucker might have had allies that we didn’t kill.” Geralt looked back at Jaskier and clenched his jaw. “A day, then we move. We’ll keep watch until then.”

Yennefer nodded. “Agreed. I have more extensive wards on my house. Once we’re there, we’ll be much safer.”

“I…” Geralt began, but then twitched and stiffened, jerking his head around to face Jaskier. He must have heard a change in the bard’s heartbeat, because a moment later, Jaskier winced and stirred, making a tiny sound as he started to come back toward consciousness. Yennefer stood quickly and crossed to the table against one wall of the tent, pouring water from a flagon into a cup and bringing it back to the bed.

Geralt was fully on the bed, leaning over Jaskier and brushing his hair away from his face with one hand. Yennefer wondered if the gesture was intentional. She held the cup out toward Geralt and said, “Here. Get him to drink this as soon as he can. I can get another once that’s done.”

“Thank you, Yen,” Geralt answered, taking the cup in his free hand and keeping up the motion of the other across Jaskier’s sweaty hair. “Jaskier? Can you hear me?”

Jaskier blinked open his eyes and made them focus on Geralt’s face with what looked like difficulty. He squinted up at the Witcher and lifted one hand, his unbroken one, toward Geralt’s arm, but seemed to lose strength halfway through, and it dropped back to the bed. “Geralt?” he asked, in a voice that sounded like it had been dragged over sharp stones on the seashore.

“It’s me, yes,” Geralt answered, and slid his arm under Jaskier’s shoulders, hoisting him up into a sitting position with what looked like barely any effort. “Drink this, come on,” Geralt said, and put the cup to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier drank the water desperately, draining the cup so quickly that he nearly choked himself. When he was done, Geralt handed it back to Yennefer, and she moved to refill it. “What happened?” she heard Jaskier ask behind her. “Did you… Did you come to get me?”

“We did,” Geralt said. “Yennefer helped me. We killed everyone in that house besides you, Jaskier. They won’t come after you again.”

Yennefer handed the second cup to Geralt, who passed it to Jaskier, like villagers forming a line between a well and a burning building. Yennefer, absurdly, almost smiled at the image. It was a strange habit of hers to catch her mind on something amusing when it was precisely the wrong moment for levity. And this was certainly an uncomfortable moment, with Jaskier clearly weak and pained, Geralt alternating between being focused and stricken, and Yennefer herself feeling more emotion than she had expected to. Than she felt she had any right to.

Jaskier finished the water, gasped out a couple of stuttering breaths, then looked up at Geralt, his face twisting with desperate fear, and stammered, “Don’t, d-don’t leave me. Please.”

Geralt looked as if that had been the last thing he was expecting to hear. “I… I’m not going to leave you. You still need my help.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, because Jaskier burst into a sudden flood of tears. Yennefer took an involuntary step back at the explosion of emotion she wasn’t prepared for, and Geralt made a face like he’d been stabbed in a particularly favorite part of his body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t go, please, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier choked out through his tears, in between sobs that wracked his body so violently that Yennefer was worried that he might re-break his rib and undo all her hard work.

Geralt seemed to have the same idea, because he gathered Jaskier to his chest, holding him still with his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “What… What are you apologizing for?” Geralt asked, in utter bewilderment. He looked over his shoulder at Yennefer helplessly, but Yennefer had no more answers than he did, so she just widened her eyes and shook her head.

“I… I… I’m sorry you had to save me, _again_ , I’m sorry, just please don’t go, please, I’m sorry, I love you…” Jaskier continued in that vein, but Yennefer doubted that Geralt heard him after “I love you”; he looked as though he had been poleaxed.

Yennefer showed considerably restraint, in her own opinion, by not rolling her eyes at Geralt. Had the bloody white-haired fool really not realized that Jaskier was head-over-heels for him? If so, he was the only one who’d failed to pick up on that extremely obvious fact.

Geralt didn’t say anything, or perhaps couldn’t say anything, just stared at the wall of the tent as if it was revealing the secrets of the universe to him. And that wouldn’t do. 

Yennefer circled around the bed and planted herself on the opposite side of it, so that she could meet Geralt’s eyes. When she was sure she had his attention, she gestured to Jaskier and said, “Say it. Go on, idiot.”

Geralt’s feelings were as obvious as Jaskier’s; for all his attempts at stoniness, Geralt had never been good at hiding where he was wounded, in his heart. As far as Yennefer was concerned, anyone who still believed that Witchers could not feel after meeting Geralt was either blind or so stupid that their brain might as well be made of mashed turnip.

As if he had only needed a command to be released from his immobility, Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier, bent his head to press his face to the bard’s hair, and said, very softly but very firmly, “Jaskier. I love you, too.”

“I… What?” Jaskier asked, gripping Geralt’s tunic in his uninjured hand.

“I love you,” Geralt repeated. “I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry they hurt you to get to me, and I’m sorry for what I said. It wasn’t true, and you didn’t deserve it. I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

He probably said more words besides, and knowing Jaskier, the bard probably said quite a few more words, but if they did, Yennefer did not hear them. This was a private conversation, and she didn’t want to intrude any more than she already had. She ducked silently out of the tent, letting the flap fall shut behind her; it shut out all the noise from within as if behind a thick wall of stone.

She took a deep breath of the clean forest air beyond. She hadn’t realized how much the tent smelled like sweat and blood and stress until she was outside of it. Her horse made a discontented snort at her, and she opened her eyes to see that all the thick, sweet grass that he had been contentedly grazing had turned to ashy dust. Well, healing was hard work, and took its toll.

“Sorry about that,” she whispered to him as she untied his reins and led him further down the slope of the hill to where there were still green things growing.

She sat down on the soft grass under a tree and rested her head against the bark, closing her eyes and taking stock of her weariness. It wasn’t so bad, she thought. She would be as strong as she ever was in an hour or so. And Jaskier would be alive, his body able to heal itself. That was… good. It was good.

She knew how it felt, to hear Geralt tell you he loved you, with all that razor-sharp focus directed to you, all that searing sincerity written across his face. He had told her the last time they had met, and she had frozen and been unable to say the words, unable even to decide if she truly wanted to say them. But in the weeks since, she had decided, when she saw him again, that she would say them, at some opportune, dramatically perfect moment, when he was at his most beautiful. When he was smiling.

So yes, she knew how it felt to hear those words from Geralt of Rivia, and she wished Jaskier joy of them, as well.


	2. Chapter 2

It probably wasn’t a full hour later, perhaps more like forty minutes, that Geralt appeared at the flap of the tent, peering out at the world with the expression of a man who had walked through fire. Yennefer was sitting a little ways down the hill, observing the sun beginning to rise, casting colorful pennants across the horizon. She lifted a hand to wave at him, and he gently settled the tent flap back into place behind him and headed in her direction.

He patted Roach’s nose as he passed her, tied up beside Yennefer’s own horse and grazing contentedly. “When did she get here?” he asked.

Yennefer shrugged. “I thought it would be good to get her from the stable sooner rather than later, before the whole town was buzzing about a massacre at a lord’s manor. She wasn’t even unnerved by the portal.”

“She keeps her head,” Geralt said fondly. “Thank you, for that.”

He lowered himself to the ground in front of her gingerly, as if he had gotten so used to being gentle that it hadn’t quite sunk in that he was no longer handling a gravely injured man. “How is he?” Yennefer asked, watching his hands as he pulled up several blades of grass and began twisting them together. 

“Sleeping again,” Geralt said.

“That’s good,” Yennefer said, when he didn’t seem inclined to continue. “He’ll need to sleep quite a bit. Humans are fragile.”

Geralt winced and nodded. “We… We talked, first.”

“I thought you might,” Yennefer said, slightly amused at the way Geralt seemed to be unable to do anything but state the obvious. “When was the last time you saw one another?”

Geralt scowled down at the grass. “The mountain.”

Ah. Of course. She and Geralt had fought, and then, apparently, Geralt had fought again with someone else. “If only it could have been under better circumstances,” Yennefer murmured, hoping that she sounded the way she felt, genuinely sympathetic, rather than the way she had trained herself to sound, aloof and unconcerned.

But, of course, Geralt always knew her well. He nodded gratefully at her. “I wish it had been. But… at least I apologized.”

“You apologized to me first,” Yennefer said. “Why didn’t you seek him out before now?”

Geralt actually flushed slightly, and shifted uncomfortably. “When people aren’t connected by destiny…” He trailed off.

“They don’t meet purely by chance quite as often,” Yennefer finished for him, actually amused by this point. She grinned at him, remembering the way he’d been as surprised as she had when they’d quite literally run into each other in a forest, those months ago. “So you rely on destiny to manage your relationships for you?”

“Shut up,” Geralt growled.

They sat companionably together for a little longer, watching the sky lighten, the only sounds the chewing of the horses as they cropped the grass. Finally, Yennefer said, “There’s something that I should have said the last time we met and didn’t.” She waited until he looked up and met her eyes, steeled her resolve, and said casually, “I love you.”

It seemed to take a moment for the words to register to Geralt, during which time he stared at her stone-faced and she experienced an agony that she would never admit to feeling. But then he ducked his head, and the slightest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I love you, too,” he said softly, not even the hint of a growl in his voice.

“Well,” Yennefer said, shrugging her shoulders and injecting some levity into her voice, to disarm the moment, “I suppose I’m glad that Jaskier beat me to it, then. You deserved to hear someone say it first, since you gave that gift to me.” Oh, fuck. That had turned out alarmingly close to sincerity by the end of it.

Geralt’s eyes sparkled. “Jaskier isn’t known for thinking before he speaks. It was inevitable.”

“I suppose so,” Yennefer said, and then, because, for all the conversation had been endlessly awkward, she was feeling rather pleased, she set her hand on Geralt’s knee, enjoying the warmth of him through his breeches.

“Yen, I… I really can’t… I…” Geralt huffed an exaggerated breath at his own difficulties, and said firmly, “Thank you. Thank you so much for helping me. If he had…”

Geralt didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to; Yennefer discovered to her surprise that she would have felt a bit of sorrow if the idiot bard had bitten the dust, too. He could be irritating, but he wasn’t… Well, he wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him, and shockingly, that mattered to Yennefer. “Happy to help a friend,” she said airily.

“There’s something else,” Geralt said, and his all-too-expressive face showed her that whatever the something else was, Geralt didn’t like it.

“Oh?” Yennefer asked, raising an eyebrow coolly and trying to contain her sudden spike of anxiety. _I was wrong when I said I loved you. I’m taking Jaskier and leaving and I don’t want to talk to you again. I don’t believe you really love me, you’re too obsessed with power_.

“I have to get Ciri,” Geralt said, and it was so unexpected to Yennefer that she just sat still and blinked at him. “I was meant to be back in two days at the latest,” Geralt continued, shifting uncomfortably. “She’s safe where she is for now, but I can’t leave her alone longer than I said I would.”

“I can portal you to where she is,” Yennefer offered.

Geralt shook his head and smiled a little ruefully. “She’s gotten pretty good at setting up wards of her own, once I showed her. The closest I’ll be able to get by portal is about twenty miles out. It’ll take me a few hours to get her and get back, even with Roach.”

“Ah,” Yennefer said, realizing what his concern was. “And you can’t bring Jaskier with you.”

“No.” Geralt clenched his jaw, sounding miserable.

Yennefer could see his concern. Traumatized, injured bard and traumatized, orphaned girl. Jaskier didn’t trust her, but he at least knew her; to Ciri, she would be nothing but a stranger, with obvious magical abilities, claiming to be sent by her guardian and protector. Much as it must gall Geralt, there was really only one way for them to handle it.

Yennefer tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. “We should let him sleep until about midday,” she said decisively. “Then we’ll see if we can fortify him with some food and get him to my house. I can watch him while you go retrieve your princess.”

“I agree,” Geralt said with obvious relief. “And… Thank you again, Yennefer.”

“As I said,” Yennefer said, smiling at him, “anything for a friend. That girl of yours must be powerful.” She was shocked and impressed that an untrained child could construct wards like that.

“She is,” Geralt said, sounding like a proud father, all warmth and contentment, not a hint of suspicion or concern. Of course she was powerful, he seemed to say, because she was his girl, and that made her special beyond all other human life.

For all that he had claimed that people like them were unsuited to parenthood, he seemed to have become a parent without even noticing it. Yennefer wasn’t sure how she felt about that thought, so she abandoned it to the shadowy parts of her mind, to be ignored and looked away from.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Yennefer said, and meant it.

***

For all that she had hated botany at Arathusa, Yennefer had managed to plant a little garden at the manor house she’d bought a few years before that could provide some pretty astonishing pharmacologic effects. It presented her very little trouble to whip up something that could not only dull pain but also make one’s general outlook on the world quite a bit rosier than the world usually warranted.

All that was to say that, though moving Jaskier, for whom even breathing hurt, out of the bed in Yennefer’s tent and through Yennefer’s portal into the manor house guest bedroom was a harrowing experience, Jaskier wasn’t a guest of Yennefer’s for very long before he was being treated to the best a disgraced ex-mage could offer him.

“You really made this potion?” he asked her in an only slightly slurred voice, his eyes wide with pupils filling up their irises. “It’s… so amazing.” He looked at the cup in his hand like it was the finest wine a noble could put on his table.

“Thank you,” Yennefer said drily from the doorway, “for the appreciation.” Despite Jaskier’s rather pitiful condition, she was just barely keeping herself from laughing at him; by the sparkle in Geralt’s eye, he was having the same difficulty.

Jaskier squinted at her where she was standing. “When did you get here?” he asked, sounding more curious than hostile. Yennefer doubted there was any hostility left in him, at that point.

“She’s been here the whole time,” Geralt said in a voice tight from restraining laughter. “She helped me break you out of prison. That was her tent we were in, before.”

“I also healed you and kept you from dying,” Yennefer put in helpfully.

Jaskier’s squint narrowed even further, and he took a contemplative sip from the cup, cradling it in his un-splinted hand. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So… where are we now?” he asked. His voice was as grave as a general’s at a council of war.

“We’re in Yennefer’s house,” Geralt said. “She’s going to watch you for a day, while I go and take care of something.”

Jaskier nodded with extreme solemnity. “Mmmm, yes. When did Yennefer get here, again?”

Geralt turned away from him, his jaw clenched and his lips trembling and twitching into a smile, and shut his eyes tightly. Yennefer breathed in carefully through her nose and ground her own teeth together, feeling the corners of her mouth go up. “Just now, actually,” she said, her voice shaking with mirth. “I came as soon as I could from a conclave with the elves about how to dispose of their magic gold.”

Geralt shot her a reproving look, but Jaskier just nodded seriously. “They weren’t so bad, those elves,” he said thoughtfully. “They kicked me, but then they didn’t kill me.”

“Yes, shockingly, no one’s killed you yet,” Yennefer answered with exactly equal solemnity. “Drink up the rest of that, it will help you sleep and stay still, which will help you heal.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier responded, as if he was considering disobeying her. She raised an eyebrow at him, which he didn’t notice because he was staring into the depths of his cup as if they held the secrets to the universe. “You know,” he finally said, slowly, as if he were working through a complex problem in his head, “I think I will drink the rest of this.” He put the cup to his lips and tilted not just his hand, but his head and entire torso, finishing the brew at the same time he fell backward into the massive mound of pillows Geralt had set up behind him.

“I’ll take that,” Geralt said hurriedly, grabbing the cup from Jaskier’s hand before it could spill its dregs onto the bedclothes. He set it on the little table beside the bed, then carefully arranged Jaskier’s sprawled, crooked arms by his sides and pulled the blankets up to the bard’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled, eyes already shut. “Ask Yennefer if she’d make me another, would you?” By the end of the sentence, his enunciation was blurring into near incomprehensibility. A moment later, he snuffled something like a half-snore, and didn’t say anything else.

“You should get going,” Yennefer said to Geralt. “The sooner you head out, the sooner you’ll be back, with Ciri.”

“I should,” Geralt answered, but for a long moment, he didn’t move, just stared at Jaskier. Finally, he sighed and brushed the bard’s hair away from his face, then stood. Yennefer stepped out of the room and he followed, closing the door behind him.

They were silent as Yennefer led the way down the hall, to the door into the yard, and from there into the stable. Geralt got to work saddling up Roach, then led her out into the yard where there was enough room to mount up. He looked at Yennefer, and she felt as if she had to reassure him.

“When he wakes up again, I’ll make him eat something else,” Yennefer said. They’d managed to get a few spoonfuls of bone broth and some mouthfuls of bread into Jaskier’s stomach, but he’d felt, in his own words, “dreadfully ill” before her potion, so it hadn’t been a lot. “And I can make more of what he just drank, it’ll help him rest.”

“Yennefer, you…” Geralt trailed off, his eyes wide on hers. Instead of saying anything else, he slowly, carefully put his arms around Yennefer’s shoulders and drew her close to him, burying his face in her hair. She raised her own arms and wrapped them around him, and they stood like that for a while. Then she pulled away from him and smiled. “Go on. I’m dying to meet this surprise child of yours. Go get her, and be quick about it.”

“Send me on my way, mage,” Geralt said, ducking his head in a parody of politeness. Yennefer rolled her eyes and, without even needing to look at what she was doing, held her arm out and waved her hand. A portal opened at the end of the hall, letting in a blast of cold air from the forest beyond it. Yennefer held Geralt’s eyes so that she could watch him dart a glance at it, his curiosity getting the better of him.

It was possible that Yennefer was showing off. Just a possibility, though.

Before he could go toward the portal, Yennefer grabbed the shoulder of his tunic and drew him in for a kiss. She made sure it was a long, deep kiss, just so that she could reassure herself that nothing about kissing him would have been changed by the fact that he loved both her and someone else.

Nothing had changed. Kissing Geralt was as glorious as ever.

He took a step away from her, toward Roach. Then he stepped back and swooped in to kiss her on the cheek. He was up onto the horse’s back and through the portal before she had gotten over the surprise enough to react. She could see the two of them trotting their way over the cold ground, not looking back.

She waved her hand again and closed the portal. _Ridiculous_ , she thought at herself. How could a peck on the cheek get her heart pounding as much as a deep kiss?

Ridiculous.

***

Yennefer didn’t have servants in her mansion. It made the place seem big and empty, but that was how she liked it: room upon room, and all hers. There were some inconveniences to that, but with all the magic at her disposal, it wasn’t so terrible of a hassle to make her own meals or tend her own garden. It was still a damned sight better than feeding the pigs every morning.

Of course, that meant that she was busy that afternoon, after she’d seen Geralt off. She had settled Jaskier before seeing to her horse, so she had to go down to the stables and make sure that he had a manger full of hay and was brushed to his satisfaction. It wasn’t a terrible task; she liked horses, and had a fondness for this one.

And then there were plants to gather, and more of the potion that had put Jaskier under to brew. She had a bottle socked away, but she certainly didn’t want to run out. Only because Jaskier would be more annoying if he was in pain, of course.

And once that was done, Yennefer realized that she was ravenous, so she had to slice herself some bread, ham and cheese, and take stock of what was in the kitchen and what might need to be brought up from the stores once there were three other people living in her house. _Staying_ , she corrected herself; she lived alone, Geralt and Jaskier and Ciri were just her guests, for however long they chose to stay.

That was the way she wanted it, of course. She didn’t need anyone else cluttering up her space.

She finished her food and glanced out the window to gauge the time. About four hours after midday. That was later than she had expected; she had lost track of time. The effects of the potion she had given Jaskier should be wearing off by that point. She cut some more thick slices of bread, ham, and cheese and set them on a board, heading out of the kitchen toward the stairs to the bedrooms and grabbing the other flask of the potion as she went.

When she reached the door to the room she’d put Jaskier in, she thought for a moment that he was still asleep. He wasn’t sitting up, or looking around, or talking. She hadn’t been aware that he could be conscious without talking. But as she stepped in through the door, she saw that his eyes were open, and he was staring at the ceiling with a strangely blank face. He glanced her way when she hummed to get his attention, seeming startled.

“Oh,” he said, his eyes wide. “You’re still here.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him and gestured around her with the hand holding the flask. “Of course I am. This _is_ my house.”

“It is?” Jaskier furrowed his brow. “Oh, it is, isn’t it. I seem to remember… that being said at some point.”

“I can sympathize,” Yennefer said, crossing the room and setting the tray and the flask down on the bedside table. “I know how those herbs can hit a body. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you didn’t remember a damned thing after we brought you here.”

Jaskier gave a shrug that he probably intended to look unconcerned. Instead, it clearly caused him pain; he winced and huffed a breath. “Ow,” he said miserably.

“Never fear, your blessed savior is here,” Yennefer said, uncorking the flask and handing it to him.

“Is this more of the stuff from before?” Jaskier asked hopefully.

“That it is,” Yennefer answered. Slowly, carefully, Jaskier reached out and took the flask from her hand, bringing it to his mouth gingerly so as not to jostle his ribs. He took a long sip and sighed. “It doesn’t take long to work, does it?” Yennefer asked, amused and a little proud of her work.

“No it does not,” Jaskier answered, his voice already going dreamy.

“Don’t drink it all at once,” Yennefer told him, and he opened his eyes again to glare at her. She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t give me that look, you need to eat something and drink something that isn’t a narcotic. Something like water.”

Jaskier frowned at the tray on the table. “I don’t feel… particularly well. In the stomach region of things.”

“Understandable, but the fact remains that you won’t get better if you starve yourself.” Jaskier pressed his lips together in an irritated look that didn’t have nearly the weight that he probably thought it did. “Come on, just eat as much as you can and then we can leave each other alone. I told Geralt I’d look after you.”

“You did?” Jaskier asked.

Yennefer arched a brow to hide her confusion. “What, did you think I’d go to all the trouble of helping Geralt rescue you and then just ignore you while you wasted away in my house? Of course I told him that. And if you look like an sad, emaciated little waif when he gets back, he’ll be annoyed with me, and that will be tiresome.”

“He’s coming back,” Jaskier said, dreamily, wonderingly, and took another sip of the potion.

“What, did you think he wasn’t?” Yennefer asked teasingly, before the truth of it hit her like a bolt of lightning. He had thought that. She remembered the carefully blank look on his face when she’d walked in. She was amazed she hadn’t recognized it: it was the look of a person who thought he had been abandoned, and was trying not to shatter because of it. “Yes, he’s coming back,” she said, more seriously.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier said faintly.

Yennefer swooped in and took the flask out of his hands before he could take another sip. She ignored his indignant cry and shoved a slice of bread into his hand instead. “Eat that, and then I’ll decide if you should have more of the potion,” she said briskly. If she moved quickly enough, and spoke matter-of-factly enough, she could trample right over the uncomfortable moment of vulnerability she hadn’t expected to have with her lover’s other lover.

“You’re a tyrant,” Jaskier said around a mouthful of the bread, and Yennefer snorted an unimpressed laugh. That was more like it. That sounded more like the Jaskier she had known.

“He’s just gone to fetch his surprise child back here,” she continued. “We’ll get to meet her, the mysterious princess.” They had told Jaskier that was where Geralt was going, but then they’d immediately gotten him high out of his mind, so it may not have stuck. Yennefer felt a pang of guilt. She could have checked on him before she had. She could have kept him from having to lie still in pain and hurt feelings.

“Hah!” Jaskier said, and swallowed the last of his bread. “Finally, a chance to see the end of the story! I was there when he asked for the Law of Surprise, you know.”

“Yes, so you have informed me in the past,” Yennefer said drily, taking advantage of his distraction to put a slice of ham into his hand.

“I thought I’d never get to see how it turned out…” Jaskier began, then trailed off. Seemingly overcome with awkwardness, he looked away from her and shoved the whole piece of ham into his mouth.

Yennefer wondered what exactly Geralt had said to him on the mountain, the words that had convinced Jaskier that he’d never see Geralt again, and that it would make sense for Geralt to leave him alone when he was so injured he couldn’t even walk.

What a mess they had all made of themselves, Yennefer reflected sardonically. She was a generous enough person to admit that she had made some poor choices of her own, in the course of her association with Geralt of Rivia.

And Geralt, of course, had made some very poor choices. And Jaskier, for his part, seemed to be a walking, talking well of poor choices. They made quite the little trio.

“You’ll have to compose a ballad about it,” Yennefer said, to cheer Jaskier up. She handed him a slice of cheese, then stood up to go the side table where she’d left a carafe of water and a glass. “Play it for the princess. Perhaps if she has poor enough taste, she’ll become your new patron.”

“Oh, ha, ha,” Jaskier grumbled. “I’ll have you know that any patron of mine would demonstrate themselves to be a person of excellent taste. A discerning ear, for whom only the best would satisfy.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Yennefer hummed dubiously as she brought the glass of water back to her seat at the side of the bed. “Eat the rest of that.” She gestured to the half-eaten piece of cheese that Jaskier was still holding.

Jaskier looked at it as if he was surprised it was there. “Oh,” he said, and did as she told him.

“If only you were always so biddable,” Yennefer said with a sigh, handing him the glass of water to wash his food down with.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier said, his words already beginning to slur with the influence of the few mouthfuls of potion. It really was potent stuff. Jaskier drained half the glass of water, then gestured expansively with it, spilling a few drops on Yennefer’s expensive bedspread. “I was eating because I wanted to, not because of anything you said.”

“Of course,” Yennefer answered, and waited until he had finished the water and set the glass down to hand him the flask. “You can drink the rest of that, now.”

“For such an insufferable person,” Jaskier said, blinking owlishly at her as he took the flask, “you can be downright decent sometimes.”

“For someone who manages to charm people into his bed often,” Yennefer said, rounding the end of the bed so that she stood on the other side of it, “you can be downright annoying, pretty much all of the time. Scoot.”

Jaskier sighed lengthily, but took a sip of the potion and made a token effort toward wiggling a little way out of the middle of the bed. It didn’t really matter; the bed was massive, and there was plenty of room for Yennefer to hop up on the empty side of it. With a wave of her hand, all the pillows that were on her bed in the master bedroom ceased to be there, and started being behind her instead. She gave a sigh and leaned back into them.

“Um, excuse me,” Jaskier said fuzzily. “No, help yourself, this is only my convalescence bed. After I nearly died.”

“So it is,” Yennefer answered, grinning with her eyes closed. “My bed, that I own, in my house, that I also own. So when I say scoot, you should consider doing so.”

Jaskier was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Not that I don’t appreciate that. The use of your home, and… everything else. I’m just wondering… Why?”

“Why?” Yennefer repeated, as if she didn’t understand the question. She understood it just fine. She just needed a little more time to compose an answer, given that she wasn’t quite sure of the answer herself.

“Why save me? Why heal me? Why… any of it?”

Yennefer considered. She opened her eyes and looked down at the bedspread, picking at the fabric with her fingers. She pondered her answer. She wondered if there even was an answer, or at least one that she could put into words. One that wasn’t dependent on emotion, that spanner in the works that she was supposed to have gained control over long ago.

What was Jaskier, to her? What were his life and his death? She thought about it. Jaskier wasn’t… terrible, as men went. He got on her nerves quite a bit, and she felt no desire to tear off his clothes, the way she did with Geralt. And yet… And yet, she didn’t think Jaskier would ever sell a child for less than the price of a pig, even were that child his wife’s daughter with another man. She didn’t think Jaskier would ever deliver someone up to be experimented upon. She didn’t think Jaskier would get closer to someone just to get information about them. There was no pretense in Jaskier, no dissembling. For all his embellishment of the truth of Geralt’s stories, he was no manipulator; he seemed to have no ability to hide his thoughts and feelings, unless the person he was hiding them from was Geralt, who seemed to be singularly unable to see through even the most flimsy facade, when it came to a person’s feelings for the Witcher himself.

He was just an uncomplicated, unsubtle, rude, but fundamentally rather decent man. He did not deserve to be captured and tortured for the sake of convincing someone who loved him to do a lord’s dirty work.

But was that really enough to justify Yennefer coming to his aid? There were so many people in the world who didn’t deserve what was happening to them; she’d never gone out of her way to save any of them.

“Because I wanted Geralt to be happy,” Yennefer answered, and discovered to her shock that it was true.

She wanted Geralt’s happiness. She wanted the slow smile he would give her when they lay in bed together, the one that made all the harshness of his face melt away. Somehow, his happiness made her happy, too, without providing her anything but itself.

And wasn’t that terrifying? She’d never wanted anything that she couldn’t take. She’d never wanted anything that didn’t depend on her. Or at least, not that she had admitted to herself.

“I make him happy,” Jaskier said, not a question, just an awed statement.

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Obviously you do, although who knows why.”

Jaskier shook the flask so that the last of the potion sloshed audibly. “I can’t be all bad, if a big scary witch like you is patching me up.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Yennefer said acidly. “And if you do decide to inflict your ballads on Geralt and his princess, you’d better keep your voice down. I can’t think of anything better able to make me change my mind.”

“Well,” Jaskier began, sounding as if he was about to be quite annoying despite the fact that his eyes were starting to slip out of focus, but then he abruptly stopped. His face fell. “Well, you won’t need to worry about that, will you? Those bastards took my lute. Probably broke it.” His voice fell to a mutter. “Probably just splinters now. If they threw it on a fire or something, I swear I’ll…”

“Easy there, soldier,” Yennefer said, sliding off the bed and striding to the corner of the room. “They’re all dead, anyway, and besides…” She picked up the case, where Geralt had set it almost reverently on a low table, and held it up so that Jaskier could see. “Never fear, you’ll be inflicting yourself on the ears of innocent passersby for many more years yet.”

Jaskier slowly turned and set the bottle down on the side table, then turned back toward Yennefer and raised both hands to his face, one pressing on each cheek. “That’s… You… It’s… She’s alive!” he stuttered out, his eyes wide and sparkling.

“She?” Yennefer asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, of course she’s a she,” Jaskier said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Right, of course,” Yennefer played along. “And does she have a name?”

“She certainly does,” Jaskier answered, “but that’s between me and her.” He gave her a wink, made clumsy by his growing lack of coordination.

“Understood,” Yennefer said, setting the lute back down on the table. She was distantly aware that she was treating it as carefully as Geralt had, but that only made sense, didn’t it? Jaskier would whine terribly if she broke it, it would be simply unbearable.

“This hand should be healed quickly, right?” Jaskier asked, leaning back against his pillows. He tried to raise the hand in front of his face to look at it, but only managed to wave it around a little. The potion was kicking in in earnest. “I’ll be back to playing in no time, won’t I?”

“Let me see it,” Yennefer answered, settling herself down on the bed beside him again. She took his hand gently in both of hers and examined it with her mage’s senses. She hadn’t done too badly with it; the fiddly little bone pieces seemed to be holding together well. With it splinted to the best of Geralt’s ability, it should heal quite well. “Yes, it will heal quickly,” she said, and then, on a whim, slid a bit of her chaos across the gap between them and into his system, a little jolt to make his body’s healing processes work a little faster.

It wasn’t a strange thing to do. She didn’t want to be stuck taking care of Jaskier forever, after all, even if it was for Geralt’s happiness. And she was nearly fully recovered from her earlier healing exertions. It wasn’t that much of a drain. It wasn’t a strange thing to do, at all. Just a whim.

“Ah, that’s good, then,” Jaskier said, his eyes drifting closed seemingly without his permission. His eyelashes fluttered but he wasn’t able to keep them open. “That’s good,” he slurred again. “Back to playing in no time.”

“Back to terrorizing anyone with ears,” Yennefer said, a bit less sarcastically than she had meant to.

For a long moment, she considered whether to get up and do something, or at the very least to go to her own room to get some rest.

Then, Jaskier twitched in his sleep, mumbled something, and tossed his head back and forth on the pillows. The motion pulled him off balance, and he slid across the mound of pillows until his head came to rest against the outside of Yennefer’s shoulder.

She still could have gotten up, of course. There was no reason not to shove him off and go somewhere else, somewhere where there wasn’t an annoying bard with his hair tickling her skin.

But then again, she’d already moved all of her own pillows to that room. And she was rather tired.

She shut her eyes and let her mind drift.


	3. Chapter 3

She drifted, not really asleep, but not really awake either. Eventually, something poked at her mind, some thought that she needed to pay attention to. She squinted her eyes open and glanced at the window, and realized that what had drawn her from her reverie was the fact that it was nearly dark. It was summer, and the days were long; it would only be a few hours before she was supposed to open the portal again and meet Geralt where she had left him, along with his princess.

Jaskier, for his part, still had his head on her shoulder. He was too deep in unconsciousness to move, but that apparently had not been enough to stop him drooling on the sleeve of her dress.

For just a moment, she reached into the place in her soul where she knew all of her anger and disgust with other people was, the hard little white-hot knot that was always there, ready for her to direct it at someone. But nothing reached back. She thought, distantly, that she should be ready to slap Jaskier and shove him back onto his pillow like a rag doll, but she wasn’t. The feeling didn’t come.

What there was in its place, she didn’t choose to examine too closely. Instead, she gently moved Jaskier’s head back onto his pillow, as careful as she ever was preparing ingredients for a spell. Then she stretched and rolled her head on her neck until she felt a bit more awake, and slid off the side of the bed and onto her feet.

There were probably a great many things that she could do. She could double-check the wards around her property, prepare spells or potions that she might need, simply practice her channeling of chaos. There were a lot of ways that she could keep herself busy, and keeping herself busy was usually her way of dealing with uncertainty. She should feel uncertain, shouldn’t she? Her fragile relationship with Geralt had taken a turn, and now she was welcoming not just him, but a couple of his hangers-on, too, into her own sanctuary.

As she passed the kitchen, she grabbed a heel of bread and an apple. She took her food out to the courtyard, where she’d set up an awning with a comfortable divan under it. She threw herself onto it and pondered her odd inner state. She didn’t want to keep busy, which meant that she wasn’t uncertain. So then, what was she?

She polished the apple on the fabric of her dress and took a bite of it. It was sweet, and the cushions of the divan were soft and giving, and the night wasn’t cold at all, it was just a pleasant sort of cool. She sank back and turned her face up toward the sky, and realized all at once what it was she was actually feeling.

She was content. She wasn’t trying to get closer to or farther away from anything, wasn’t striving for anything, wasn’t trying to change anything. She wasn’t planning her next move. She was just… content in her existence.

She felt the lurch as her heart picked up. That… Geralt was able to do all of that? She thought she had come to terms with the djinn’s influence in their relationship, but… surely that couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be content in a situation that was so far out of her control. Was something happening to her mind?

She pondered that for a long moment, as she finished the food she’d brought outside with her. If she busied herself, would it shake off this strange, out of place contentment? Reluctantly, she forced herself up off the divan, bidding farewell to the stars that were starting to come out in the night sky, and headed back inside to catalogue all her ingredients.

***

When the time came to reopen the portal and bring back Geralt and his princess, Yennefer stood on the lawn of her manor, under the stars and the summer moon, feeling the cool night breeze on her skin. Before her, the air shimmered, flowed like water, and then parted into an oval, stretching from the ground to the height of the top of a war horse’s head. Beyond it were thick woods, dark and shadowy, a tangled mess that kept her from seeing far.

There was no sign of Geralt. Their agreement had been that she would hold the portal open for thirty minutes, closing it after that time or if she saw anything out of the ordinary or suspicious. She turned her thoughts inward, to where she could mark the passage of time by the workings of her body, and settled cross-legged on the grass to wait.

In the end, she did not have to wait very long. It was only a few minutes before she heard the steady beats of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of the bridle.

They came into view just as gradually, as shadows moving under distant tree branches, growing larger and clearer, until finally they stepped out into the moonlight close by the portal and Yennefer got her first glimpse of them. Geralt and Roach looked just the same as always, no injuries, no sign that there had been any struggle, and Yennefer turned her attention to the little princess, sitting in front of Geralt on the saddle.

At first glance, there seemed to be nothing special about her. She had milk-pale skin that was unmarked by long labor or exposure to the elements, and her hair, in the low light, seemed to be golden and to fall in gentle waves. Certainly these were things that made sense for a princess, and Yennefer was sure that she was pretty, but dressed as she was in very plain clothing and seated on Roach’s broad back, she could have been anyone.

But then she got a bit closer, and Yennefer saw the way she carried herself, the straightness of her spine and the raised chin, the stillness of her face, strong and watchful, and the princess’s eyes, bright blue and captivating. Yennefer could feel her in the eddies of chaos, her defiance and her sorrow, her pain and her hope, and something else, as well, a way in which chaos bent around her and acknowledged her presence.

She had power, although Yennefer wasn’t sure what the nature of that power was; more than that, she had _significance_. She was important to the world. Geralt hadn’t been exaggerating that.

And Geralt’s face was transformed by a slight smile, the honest, warm smile that Yennefer had seen when he was content. For all that he had fought against the Surprise, he loved his princess, that much was clear.

When they reached the portal, Geralt helped the princess down from Roach’s back so they could fit through, and they stepped through together onto the lawn and the much brighter moonlight. A glint at the princess’s breast caught Yennefer’s eye, and she saw that Ciri was wearing the brooch that she had gotten for her. The sight made Yennefer feel an unexpected jump of happiness.

“Glad you made it,” Yennefer said, smiling and raising an eyebrow, keeping herself cool and composed. She let go of the little place in her mind where she was keeping the portal open, and it blinked out of existence just behind Roach’s swishing tail.

“Thanks for the shortcut,” Geralt answered, his smile quirking slightly, into something a bit more teasing. He put a hand on the princess’s shoulder. “This is Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

The princess rolled her eyes and looked up at Geralt with his nose wrinkled. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked back at Yennefer, and said, a little hesitantly, “Just Ciri is fine.”

“Just Ciri,” Yennefer answered, and put out a hand. Ciri took it, her smile wavering with nerves. “I am Yennefer of Vengerburg, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

Ciri’s smile firmed, and she grasped Yennefer’s hand a little more tightly. “I’m pleased to meet you as well. Geralt told me that you’re the most powerful mage he’s ever met.” Yennefer darted her eyes to Geralt, pleased and surprised; Geralt didn’t meet her eyes, apparently embarrassed. “Thank you, by the way,” Ciri continued, a little shy. “For the brooch. It’s beautiful.”

“A trifle that I came across in my travels,” Yennefer said airily, waving one hand. “I’m glad that you like it.”

“Yennefer,” Geralt asked, “is he…?”

“Your bard is fine,” Yennefer answered. “Should still be sleeping soundly, I assume. I managed to get him to eat and drink a bit, and gave him more of the potion to keep him resting.”

“I’m glad.” Geralt’s expression seemed to collapse with relief. Yennefer watched in fascination as the Witcher looked around, from her to Ciri to the manor house behind them, his eyes widening and his shoulders relaxing. Yennefer imagined that he was realizing that he had gathered all the people that he cared about in one place, where he could keep an eye on them.

Yennefer imagined that that must make him feel… safe. Content. She wasn’t sure whether she was happy for him or envied him. Probably it was a bit of both.

Ciri opened her mouth as if she would say something else, but before she could, a yawn split her jaw widely. She pressed both her palms to her mouth and screwed her eyes shut as she yawned, and she suddenly looked so much like a child that Yennefer was charmed and disoriented. “You should get some sleep,” Geralt said gruffly, setting one large hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“That’s my cue,” Yennefer said, and gestured toward the manor. “I have guest rooms enough to house an army, you can choose whichever one suits you. Apart from the one currently occupied by Geralt’s pet bard.”

Ciri snorted a laugh and wrinkled her nose at Geralt in the way of all children who know one of their adult’s secrets and wants to tease them about it. Geralt made a closed-mouth _hmm_ sound and gave a flat, unimpressed stare to first Ciri, then Yennefer. Yennefer merely smiled her sweetest smile back and gestured for Geralt and Ciri to precede her to the manor’s doors, then winked at Ciri as she passed. The princess giggled. It made Yennefer feel proud of herself, for some reason.

It was simple enough to settle first Ciri, then Geralt in comfortable rooms, right next to each other and across the hall from the room she’d given Jaskier. Then Yennefer headed to her own bed, trying not to look too closely at the odd, buoyant happiness that was bubbling its way through her mind.

***

It took three hours of tossing, turning, and intermittent and unsatisfying dozing for Yennefer to admit that she wasn’t going to be able to sleep that night. She flung herself onto her back with an irritated huff and stared up at her high ceiling, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. 

Did she want to fuck? Was that it? It wouldn’t be surprising, having Geralt that close by. Was that the source of the restlessness under her skin? Well, the poor man had had a rough few days; he was probably exhausted. If that was the problem, her hand would serve her passably well, until she could get what she really wanted.

But that wasn’t it, she realized. She trailed a hand, light-fingered down her chest and stomach, but it the sensation didn’t catch her interest. She threw her arm out to the side and rolled her eyes at herself. Well, if that wasn’t the problem, what was it? She didn’t have time for mysterious restlessness to distract her.

She ran through the regular repertoire of bodily discomfort. She wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t thirsty, she wasn’t in pain, she wasn’t ill. She was tired, but her inability to fix that was the problem at hand. No help there. She turned to the various mental disturbances she tended toward. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t wounded. She wasn’t disgusted, or frustrated. She wasn’t having to maneuver around an opponent, or change her plans on the fly to deal with a sudden obstacle.

“What the hell is going on?” Yennefer finally muttered to herself, sitting up in bed and running her fingers through her hair, giving up on sleep entirely. She considered her options for a moment, then sighed and swung her legs off the bed and stood.

She wandered, aimlessly but not, until she realized that, inevitably, she had found her way to the wing of the house with the guest rooms.

“Of course,” she muttered to herself, and rolled her eyes. She was starting to be as bad as Geralt.

The door to Ciri’s room was closed, but when Yennefer put her ear against it and focused on her hearing, she could detect the girl’s steady breathing from inside. Fast asleep, then.

Geralt’s door was open, the bed within rumpled up but unoccupied, which meant that she was absolutely not surprised by what she saw when she got to Jaskier’s open door.

Jaskier had arranged himself on his side, all of his injured appendages held carefully away from his body so they wouldn’t take any weight, and Geralt was curled into the bard’s back like a wall in the center of the bed. Both Witcher and bard were sound asleep. Yennefer leaned against the doorframe for a moment, feeling a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Ridiculous. They were both ridiculous.

_I had better get laid at some point, all this trouble I’m taking_ , Yennefer thought to herself, but without any real heat to it. She turned to go back to her bed. Perhaps now that she’d checked on all of her guests, reassured herself that they were safe and sound, she’d be able to sleep.

She stopped when she detected the change in breathing and heartbeat of someone in the room beyond, the fluttering of a mind and body just skimming the border of sleeping and waking. She turned back toward the room and saw the moonlight from the open window glinting off the narrow slits of Geralt’s eyes as he looked blearily at her.

For some reason, the only thing she could think of to do was to raise one hand and wave awkwardly. Something about Geralt took away all her hard-won poise and control.

They stayed like that for what felt like a small eternity, then Geralt huffed and shuffled his way slightly closer to Jaskier. Yennefer was about to turn to leave again when he muttered, his voice thick with returning sleep, “Come in?”

She realized that his movement had created a little more room on his other side, enough for another person to lie in. It would be cramped, but it was a big bed; all the beds in the manor were. She would fit.

She crossed the room, her feet silent on the thick rugs, and slid under the covers, pressing the front of her body to Geralt’s back. She put one of her arms around his broad body and rested her hand on his belly, felt the muscles shifting as he breathed. The backs of her knuckles brushed Jaskier’s bare back, the skin there almost as soft as hers. With her legs tucked into the angles of Geralt’s, her face only came to the place between his shoulder blades, so she turned her head so that she could rest her cheek there, feeling the ends of his hair tickle her forehead.

She thought about how long she was willing to lie there, with the two of them, in one of her guest rooms, before she would have to get up and head back to her own, more comfortable bed and get some real sleep.

While she was thinking about that, sleep crept up on her at last, and she didn’t think any more about it.

***

When she woke up, it was because there was sun shining directly on her head. Her face was pressed into a pillow; apparently she’d been moving her eyes out of the light for some time. It took a moment for her to register what was wrong with the situation.

The window in her bedroom was placed so that it never allowed the light to hit her bed; she’d made sure that was the case before she’d chosen that bedroom.

She cracked open her eyes, blinking against the sun, and recognized the furniture. It was one of her guest rooms. The events of the night before came back to her very suddenly. She hadn’t intended to stay the night. She had fallen asleep so quickly.

She was facing the edge of the bed, and there was enough room behind her, as she shifted and stretched her legs, that she thought she was alone in the room. She pushed herself over onto her back to get her face away from the damned sunlight, threw one arm out over what she assumed would be an empty bed, and smacked someone in the side of the head.

“Ow,” Jaskier said, indignantly.

Yennefer was so startled that she reached out in her mind for chaos, before realizing what was going on and pulling herself back. “Sorry,” she said, although the sentiment was somewhat spoiled by her inability to keep from grinning at the affronted look on his face.

“Well, you should be,” Jaskier answered. “Going around hitting poor invalids like that.”

Now that she was a little more awake, she was aware, through the window, of the sounds of people moving around on the floor below, in the kitchens. Two people, one of whom moved in a way that was very familiar to her.

“Geralt’s already up then?” she asked, stretching her limbs out again and making a big show of avoiding running them into Jaskier.

“Oh, he’s been up,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes. “You missed it. Slept right through. I didn’t think you’d sleep so soundly, being a mage and all.”

Yennefer hadn’t thought she would, either. It was only then that she realized how little she had been sleeping, the past few nights. Weeks. Months. But somehow, she’d slept all through the previous night. She felt amazing, actually. “Maybe I was just pretending to sleep,” she said, idly, not really intending to convince.

Jaskier, probably wisely, didn’t even deign to respond to that. “He woke me up to make me drink some more of your potion,” he said instead. “Not as much, though. I think I’m getting better!”

He did look quite a bit more alert than the day before, and seemed to be able to move a little bit better. Yennefer reached out, following the threads of her own workings into the places that he’d been hurt and discovering that he had healed a lot more than she would have expected over the single day and night. She must have put more of her power into the effort than she had thought.

She remembered the way she had called fire, at Sodden Field. There were depths to her channeling of chaos that she hadn’t yet explored.

“Well, he and Ciri are in the kitchen,” Yennefer said, inching slightly closer to Jaskier to avoid the sun.

“They had better be making enough breakfast for all of us.”

“Well, they’re certainly making something. I doubt Geralt is even capable of making something for himself and not feeding everyone.”

“Oh, you clearly haven’t spent much time traveling with him,” Jaskier said dramatically. “He wouldn’t even let me ride on Roach with him. I had blisters like you wouldn’t believe. He can be so cruel sometimes.” Jaskier sighed explosively, but his eyes were shining in a way that showed that he knew, just as well as Yennefer did, that Geralt was far from cruel to the people who wormed their way into his guarded heart.

“And I suppose he made you starve, hmm?”

“Daily. But there’ll be plenty of time for him to make it up to me.” Jaskier ran a hand along the soft sheets of the bed. “And by the way, you’re making a start in making everything up to me, with this house and this bed.”

“Am I?” Yennefer answered, in a tone of voice that had made other men cower. “Is that so?” Jaskier did not cower, just grinned at her; she found that, strangely, she didn’t mind.

After a long moment of silence, Jaskier asked, “Are you going to get up? Go see what they’re doing in your kitchen?”

“I suppose I should,” Yennefer answered. She should. She wasn’t the sort of person to laze about, and there was plenty to be done. She had things in motion all across multiple lands; the wisest thing to do, of course, would be to leave the manor to Geralt’s little family, for a while, and go somewhere she could think more clearly.

At the very least, she should get away from that terrible sun.

But another silence fell, and Yennefer didn’t move. Instead, she found herself listening: to the sound of Jaskier’s breathing and shifting beside her, to the movement of Geralt and Ciri below. The high, clear sound of a young girl’s laughter. Yennefer found herself smiling at the thought of serious, severe Geralt making a child laugh.

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier said, at last. When she looked at him, eyebrows raised, he wasn’t looking at her, staring instead at the ceiling. “Just… You don’t have to. You’re already here, after all,” he continued airily, “and getting up seems like far too much work.”

Yennefer smiled and rolled onto her side, pulling the covers firmly over herself and thus conceding the point.

Jaskier made a pleased sound that, perhaps a few months ago, Yennefer would have thought was smug. Then, with careful effort, he turned on his side with his back to her, and after a moment of hesitation, she threw an arm over him, across his stomach to avoid his healing ribs. He was smaller than Geralt, but somehow ran even warmer.

At her back, the sun crept closer, a threat that she would have to deal with, but later. Under her arm, Jaskier breathed comfortably, his heartbeat slowing as he drifted between sleeping and waking. A floor down, Geralt’s deep voice and Ciri’s higher one drifted together through the air. And although there was so much that she could be doing, Yennefer enjoyed her moment of stillness.


End file.
